I was leaning on her shoulder. She was my rock. My source of comfort. She looked over at me and said: “Why do you always gotta lean on me like that? It’s annoying.” There was a group of us there; they were her friends, not mine, and they only tolerated me because I was her boyfriend.
We went to a party. I drank probably too much. When I arrived at the party, I could barely stand. Someone gave me some pills; I took them without a moment’s thought. I was intent on escaping, what? … something or another. I couldn’t stand myself, my shadow, my reflection—it was all so repulsive.
When she found me in the next room, faced buried in a rag, as I sprayed Axe Body Spray up through the rag and into my mouth and took an epic huff that turned the floor into waves and my thoughts were skipping beats, she was pissed. She stormed out of the room and I stormed after her. She left the party in a rage, and I stopped her on the sidewalk.
“Where are you going?”
She stopped and turned and glared at me hard.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she spat. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”
“It’s what I’m good at,” I told her. It’s all I’m good at.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m not good at anything,” I explained. “I can’t do anything right. My mind is a growing void.”
She said: “You’re not making any sense.”
“I’m too smart,” I went on. “I’m too fuckin smart for my own fuckin good. I need to dumb myself down. Maybe people will like me better. Maybe I will like myself better. Maybe I won’t care.”
She hurried off into the night. I followed.
“Go away!” she spat at me. “I mean it, I’m not interested in what you got to say.”
“I can’t even make you love me!” I said to her back as she kept walking, and then she was gone, and I was alone, holding in one hand a damp rag and in the other hand a can of Axe Body Spray.
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